Always
by Joodiff
Summary: He never listens. If he did, he wouldn't be so angry with her now. Still, Grace finds the situation has some definite advantages... Complete. T-rated for language and adult themes. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _For Got Tea._

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 **Always**

by Joodiff

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The taxi's vanished into the night even before Grace has got the front door unlocked, but that doesn't matter – this is a quiet residential street tucked away in a respectable North London enclave, one where petty crime is infrequent and more serious incidents are virtually unheard of. She remembers only one assault and one burglary taking place in the last fifteen or more years, both of which turned out not to be as random as they'd first appeared. No, she's not at all worried as she opens the door and makes her way into the dark hallway beyond. It's late – far later than she anticipated – so she takes a moment to deadlock the door behind her and to shoot the upper and lower bolts home for the night. Force of habit, and the unfortunate consequence of working alongside so many jaded police officers for so many years. Setting her handbag down and taking off her coat and scarf, she decides to go straight upstairs to bed. Boyd has called an early meeting in the morning and – given how angry with her he already is – her life most definitely won't be worth living for several long and gruelling hours if she's even a few minutes late arriving for it.

Ascending the stairs, most of her thoughts are centred on the convivial evening just passed. It's good to catch up with old friends, to share news, and to trade stories of busy lives, grown-up children and professional advancement. The latter is becoming more of a rarity nowadays, as the spectre of retirement starts to loom larger and larger on the horizon for most of them, but it's still enjoyable to hear who's up to what, and with whom. It's important to maintain at least a thread of an independent social life beyond work, after all, and if Boyd doesn't recognise that…

Actually, she's not being entirely fair to him, Grace reflects as she switches on the bathroom light and closes the door behind her. It was the timing he objected to, that was all. Then, how was she supposed to know he'd taken it into his head to book a table at a stupidly expensive West End restaurant for tonight? If he'd actually listened when she'd first told him she was planning to meet up with some very old friends then he would have known that for once she wouldn't be available to dance to his tune the moment he impulsively snapped his fingers.

That's just the way he is, of course. Spontaneous. Rash, even. Quick decisions often made entirely on a whim or on an inexplicable gut feeling. It's not the way she does things; at least, not anymore. Once, maybe. Though, isn't that part of the attraction? Doesn't she sneakily quite admire his ability to instantly make his mind up and then act instead of getting mired in self-doubt and procrastination?

She'll call him, she decides, finishing her bedtime ablutions. Once she's snuggled up warm in bed, she'll call him. This late, he's bound to be home, though he'll probably still be hard at work on something or other connected to the CCU. Where he finds the energy and the discipline, she doesn't know. Has never known. Without it, though, the whole damn unit would have collapsed under the sheer weight of admin and bureaucracy long ago. It takes a very special kind of devotion to work all day on whatever detailed investigations are currently in hand, and then plough so many extra hours into the kind of boring, mundane tasks that keep everything running smoothly. A special kind of madness, too, perhaps.

Heading across the small landing towards her bedroom and switching lights off as she goes, Grace frowns as she becomes aware of a growing sense that something isn't quite as it should be. The house is never completely dark – there's too much external light pollution for that – but although her eyes are still adjusting to the sudden lack of harsh overhead light, the landing doesn't seem quite dark enough, even though she can see for herself that there's not a single light or lamp illuminated in any of the upstairs rooms. Or any of the downstairs rooms, come to that. It must be her imagination playing tricks on her. Either that, or she didn't close the bedroom curtains earlier when she was getting ready to go out. But she knows she did.

Her heart is beating a little faster as she pushes the bedroom door fully open, but she's not really aware of it. The curtains are indeed open, and a strange mixture of orangey-yellow street lighting and struggling moonlight is casting the room into not-quite monochrome relief, colours drained away but major details left intact. She reaches out automatically, but an unexpected voice from the corner of the room orders, "Don't put the light on."

She jumps. Recognising the disembodied voice isn't enough to stop the fear-charged surge of adrenaline that immediately courses through her. She does, however, manage to contain the undignified yelp of surprise it provokes. Damn the man. She knew giving him his own front door key was a mistake she'd live to regret. Though, he doesn't really need a key. They say poachers make good gamekeepers, and in her experience police officers make very good burglars.

She can just about see him now, deep in the shadows though he is. Lounging at his ease in the big leather armchair beside the stylish wooden chest of drawers that she's owned for most of her adult life. Glaring, she's about to voice a pithy opinion on his uninvited presence when he adds, "Come here."

Her instinct is to bridle at the casual note of command in his voice. Not just on feminist principle, either. Grace is not a woman who ever responds well to being so peremptorily told what to do. By anyone. Of either gender. On this occasion, though, instinct is tempered by sudden intrigue. There's a touch of something in his voice. A touch of need, maybe. An edge of promise that suggests he's playing a very particular game with her. One she'd never choose, but can't quite help going along with. Sometimes.

Tonight might be one of those times.

Slow and deliberate, she stalks towards him, every precise step designed to tell him that it's entirely her choice to advance.

Closer now, she can see all the long lines of him; can see the way one leg is nonchalantly crossed over the other, the way his arms and wrists lie so relaxed against the worn leather of the chair. He's been home. No doubt about that. Tee-shirt and jeans, washed-out grey over faded blue. She can't see the colours, but she knows what they are. She just knows. Just as he knows what looks good on him.

"That's close enough," he tells her when she's she a couple of feet away. Grace stops, gives him a haughty, appraising look that asks questions she knows he won't bother to answer. In the weird orange-tinted twilight his dark eyes look even deeper, even more unfathomable, all their subtle shades and colours stolen away...

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 **A/N:** _Due to FFN's continued enforcement of the "no MA fic" rule, the above is a taster for the full story which you can find in the "Waking the Dead" category of Archive Of Our Own. Please be aware that the full version of "Always" is adult-rated. Thanks._


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